


Singular

by ddagent



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Romance, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: They're usually each other's plus one. But for Ric's wedding, Bernie has brought a date.





	Singular

**Author's Note:**

> This is very loosely inspired by 19.49 (but there aren't any spoilers). Huge thank you to my favourite ladies ktlsyrtis and Igerna for giving this an eleventh hour look over! :) I hope you enjoy.

“May I present the new Mister and Mrs Griffin!”

Applause rang out in the banquet hall as Ric shared his first kiss with wife number six. _Six wives. God_. Once was more than enough for Serena Campbell. She was quite happy to remain an _ex-wife_ for the rest of her days rather than go through all that palaver again. She turned to her right, intending to whisper as much into Bernie’s ear. But as soon as she opened her mouth she closed it; drawing a curious look from Henrik Hanssen who was _actually_ sitting on her right. Bernie was in the row in front of them. With her _date._

“Such a wonderful couple.”

“I’d hardly call them a…Oh, _yes,_ Ric and Francois,” Serena covered, pointedly fixing her gaze on the happy couple as they passed down the aisle. “They really do make it all look so easy.”

“And what would that be?”

Serena found her gaze drifting to Bernie once more. “Falling in love.”

In her experience, falling in love was never easy or enjoyable. Love was having your husband throw up in your bouquet outside the registry office. Love was hearing whispers of infidelity and brushing them under the carpet until you came home to find him fucking your registrar on it. Love was being let down and love was protecting your nephew. Love was falling hopelessly in love with a woman, your best friend. Love was having it so close you could almost _taste it,_ only for it to become sour with fear and untaken chances.

“Serena?”

The wedding party was moving into the garden for photographs. Serena was aware of little other than the satin of Bernie’s waistcoat, or the flower in her lapel. Blonde curls that, even at a wedding, were an untameable mess. Curls that were currently being flattened by Bernie’s date; curls that were being attacked by hairspray and pins. Biting back the urge to break the young nurse’s hand (young, _so young,_ Bernie what were you _thinking?),_ Serena took Henrik’s arm instead and allowed him to escort her outside.

“Rarely have I been to such a lovely wedding.” Bernie and Nurse Ratchet were behind them. Her dress was a joke. This was a wedding, not Albie’s on a Friday night. “Usually some sort of drama unfolds during the ceremony. A birth, perhaps. A crisis at the hospital. A rather handsy mother of the groom.” Serena craned her neck, desperate to see what they were up to next. Maybe they’d found a tree to snog behind. “Of course, we have yet to reach the ritual sacrifice part of the evening.”

“I’m sure the reception will be lovely.”

Serena suddenly felt herself tugged sideways; pulled out of the procession and in front of the smiling waiters offering glasses of champagne. Henrik placed one in her hand. He didn’t speak until she had drunk the first glass and opted for a second. “Serena, I consider you to be one of my closest friends. So it is with a heavy heart that I ask you _please,_ do not make me interfere with the love lives of my staff.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Henrik.” Serena caught the colour lilac in the corner of her eye and twisted wildly, only to see a flower girl instead. He raised a single eyebrow. “ _Fine._ We just…Bernie and I always go together. This is the first time in our entire friendship that we haven’t gone as the other’s plus one.”

Arthur’s funeral was the first time. Quite by accident but they had sat together in the church and drank together the entire wake. Car shared to Lou’s wedding and had sat next to each other during the reception. With no one to accompany them to Hector Effanga-Thompson’s christening, they’d just gone together. A year and a half of weddings and baby showers and funerals. A rather macabre display in the Fletcher back garden as they buried Ella’s pet rabbit. Even at Bernie’s army reunion they had been side by side. But not here. Bernie had brought a _date._

It was the new cardiothoracic nurse who had been making eyes at Bernie for months. They’d shared a few drinks; Bernie had spent a week on Darwin covering Jac but nothing had seemed to come of it. Then, suddenly, Nurse Ratchet was attending Ric’s wedding as Bernie’s plus one. She had told Serena in the office like it was nothing; like Serena hadn’t already been out shopping for a dress to match the lilac shirt in Bernie’s wardrobe. Like they didn’t do everything together. But that was the problem: _they_ _weren’t together._

They could have been. After their first and only kiss in theatre, they could have become _something._ But fear had gripped her; uncertainty over her feelings and her own sexuality had sent Serena running for the hills. Their friendship had suffered. Both of them, in their own way, were glad of the sabbatical that sent Bernie to Kiev for two months. When she came back, it was like nothing had ever happened. Other than Bernie’s drunken admittance that her feelings for Serena – strong, _intense_ feelings – were a thing of the past. Other than Serena finally admitting to herself that she wanted Bernie. That she loved her. 

And now Bernie was bringing a glass of champagne to her date that was too occupied with taking a selfie to get one herself.

“It’s not a problem, Henrik.”

“I highly disagree.”

Ric passed them, then; immediately sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. “Dare I ask?”  

Serena downed her glass of champagne as Henrik explained. “I have barely held Serena’s attention throughout the afternoon because her focus has been solely fixed upon _Ms_ _Wolfe_ instead _._ ”

Ric chuckled. “She’s like it on the ward too. Can’t get anything done when they’re on at the same time. Too busy _mooning_ over each other.” Was it bad form to knee the groom in the testicles on his wedding day? “But I agree; this is ridiculous. You two should be together!”

Serena gestured towards Bernie and Nurse Ratchet. “It might have escaped your notice, Ric, but she’s currently here with someone else.”

“Pfft. _That_ is not a lasting relationship. Trust me.”

“Because you’re such an expert at romance.”

“You’re at my wedding, Serena!”

“Sixth wedding,” she teased; grateful that Ric had mellowed in his old age. She knew he was right. Bernie and Nurse Ratchet wouldn’t make it down the aisle. That would be one wedding she would gladly miss. Watching Bernie and her girlfriend made her want to miss this one too. “Well thank you, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to get atrociously drunk now.”

There were plenty of glasses of champagne. An open bar. A bottle of Shiraz on every table; two on the one she sat on, surrounded by Francois’ relatives. Being a fluent speaker she could engage them in conversation. Sadly they were all rather dull. She spent dinner watching Bernie instead. The light in her eyes seemed to dim with every course; the napkin she worried practically torn to shreds. Nurse Ratchet was the soul of the party but Bernie withered beside her. Serena’s fish lay uneaten as Bernie picked at her lamb. Their eyes met over the trio of desserts. Serena offered a sympathetic smile. Could it be that Bernie was having just as terrible a time as her?

The next time she saw Bernie was halfway through the evening reception. She’d drunk a bottle and a half of Shiraz and had danced with every frog who thought himself a prince. Serena enjoyed being desired so openly, especially by so many men. Yet, as her feet began to throb and she retreated from the dancefloor, Serena searched for the only person she _wanted_ to want her. She spotted Bernie sitting away from the party underneath a gazebo; her tie undone and a bottle of whiskey in her grasp. Serena slipped off her heels and padded across dewy grass to join her.

“Feel like sharing?”

Bernie’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “Not sure you should mix whiskey and wine.”

“I’ll risk it.” She had been drooled all over by Francois’ cousins all evening, but Bernie’s shy appreciation of her teal dress made her stomach flutter. The sounds of the reception faded away until it was just the two of them. Like always. Like it should be. “Where’s-“ _Don’t say Nurse Ratchet._ “-Emma got to?”   

“She left.” _Thank God._ “Actually, I told her to leave. I could never get comfortable around her. Always on her phone. Then tonight she said something about you.”

Serena’s face coloured. “What did she say?”

Bernie took another gulp of whiskey. “Called you a spinster. Nearly hit her.” Another drink. “I asked her to F.O.H. Had to explain it; lost a little of the impact. But she’s gone now.”

“Good.” A waiter came past with a glass of Shiraz. Through the lights of the party, Serena could make out Henrik’s thin features. Serena let the waiter head back inside before she spoke again. “I don’t even know why you even brought her in the first place.”

“I don’t know either!” Bernie gasped. The bottle hung from her fingers. “ _Yes_ , yes I do. It was Cam. And Charlotte. They wanted me to ‘get out there’. Start seeing people. Not that it’s gone particularly well. This just proves how horrible I am at romance.”

Serena scoffed, sliding closer to Bernie until she could bump her shoulder with hers. “One bad date is not enough to write yourself off entirely.”

“Well it’s not just one bad date, is it?” Bernie’s voice grew thin, gravelly; the whiskey and unshed tears stripping her vocal chords. “It’s the failed marriage, it’s the misguided affair. It’s falling in love with _you_ when I _knew_ you weren’t interested in women.” Bernie took another drink. “I don’t _need_ someone, Serena. But I’d like someone to spend my life with.”

“You’ve got me.”

Blonde curls splayed against the shoulder of her dress. “I do. But what happens when you find some handsome, intelligent man who owns a vineyard?”

Serena swallowed, arguing with herself whether this was the right time. There had been moments like this, over the last year, when she could have owned up to her feelings. But she had never taken the chance. If she didn’t now, she never would. “Then I’d I’ll tell him _no thank you._ I’m already with the person I want to spend my life with.”

The truth was out. Her knees shook. The glass of wine trembled in her hand; Shiraz sloshing at the sides. Bernie didn’t say anything. _If she’s not interested, I’ll just blame the wine and the reality of being a singleton at a wedding filled with my colleagues,_ she thought. _If she’s interested, I don’t know what I’ll do._ Fear and uncertainty had held her tongue for months. They churned her stomach yet again. _I’ve loved you for over a year, Bernie. I hope you still love me._

Curls slid off her shoulder. Dark eyes met hers, before glancing down to stare at her wine stained mouth. There was a pause that felt like an eternity where they both just looked at each other. And then Bernie’s mouth was on hers; desperate and passionate as her hand abandoned the whiskey bottle to rest against the curve of Serena’s neck. Bernie pulled away, just for a moment, as if to check that this was what she even wanted. Serena answered with a kiss; fingers pressing into the cotton of Bernie’s shirt. 

The noise from the reception as Francois tossed the bouquet was the only thing that brought them up for air. Then there were fireworks ( _of course there were bloody fireworks_ ) that splashed red and gold across Bernie’s face. Serena traced the colours with her thumb, not kissing but just _staring_ at the woman she loved. Bernie seemed determined to memorise her features in this new light, in this new way, with nothing holding them back. They were together, now. No more fear. No more uncertainty.

Bernie took the hand caressing her cheek and kissed it. “I think there’s still time to salvage this evening. May I have this dance, Ms Campbell?”

“You may, Ms Wolfe.”

She led Serena from the gazebo and back to the dance floor, where the band was playing a cover of Michael Bolton. Serena ignored the smirk of Ric and his new wife, but did offer Henrik a smile as he sat talking with Ric’s granddaughter. Her attentions turned, as they had all evening, to Bernie. It felt good to hold her, to be held by her. The kiss they shared as the chorus built was seen by more than a few Holby staff. No doubt they would be the talk of the hospital come Monday. Serena couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“So, Zosia and Ollie are getting married next year,” Bernie said as she made an effort to twirl Serena. “Is it too early to ask if you’ll be my plus one?”

Serena smiled. “Darling, you’re going to have an automatic plus one for a long time to come.”

She had been wrong, earlier. Love was dancing in bare feet and your girlfriend’s suit jacket when the evening turned cold. Love was spending the night in a hotel room you had booked for one. Love was the two of them, together, always.


End file.
